


Where Were You When You Heard?

by justkatherinetheokay



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: American History, Between Movies, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Kennedy assassination, M/M, heh, rated T for brief language sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkatherinetheokay/pseuds/justkatherinetheokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone asked it of everyone in the aftermath.</p><p>Thirteen months after Cuba, the world changed again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Were You When You Heard?

**Author's Note:**

> Because obviously, if Erik was involved in the way he was, then Jack Ruby was a mutant.
> 
> And because I am my father's daughter, I had to look up what the weather was like in both New York and Chicago on that day to make sure I got it right.

November 22, 1963

2:51 PM 

Westchester 

It was a pleasant day in New York. Cloudy, but unusually warm for late November, and the clouds were starting to burn off a little. Out on the lawn, Alex had taken his group of teenagers for a walk, and inside, Hank had his usual Friday afternoon off to work on his current project. Today, that meant putting final touches on the new batch of serum. A pleasant day. 

The radio had been innocuous in the background of the lab until it cut out to static—very loud static at that. “We interrupt our broadcast,” said an unfamiliar announcer, “to inform you that the President has just been shot.” 

The beaker hit the floor and shattered. Serum went everywhere. Hank was already running. 

  


2:52 PM 

“My goodness, Hank,” said Charles when the study door burst open. The crowd of twelve-year-olds before him turned as one to look in the same direction. “What’s the matter?” Hank had already turned on the television, fiddling with the dials until a grim-faced newscaster appeared. 

“The President was sitting in the back of an open limousine traveling through Dallas’ Dealey Plaza at the time of the shooting—” Oh. Charles blinked. Hank sat very still before the set, staring at the screen, himself unblinking. Shock and fear were rolling off the young scientist in cold, horrifying waves. 

“I think we can stand to end class—er—” keeping his tone light, Charles twisted his entire upper body to look at the grandfather clock behind him. _Damn_ the chair. “Eight minutes early, today. You’re all dismissed.” Anxiety from the children, confusion as they packed up their notebooks and stumbled out of the room. 

_The president’s been shot?_

_Fine. My parents hated him anyway._

_Was it the Russians?_

Charles threw up his shields. The last thing they needed was his adult concerns projecting into their young minds. 

“Anna,” he said. The little aerokinetic paused, glancing back. 

“Professor?” 

“Would you be so kind as to fetch me the rest of the staff?” he asked, still keeping his tone as calm as possible. “Tell them classes are to end a bit early today. I need them in here.” Anna nodded and left. As soon as she was gone, Charles let his shields back down and wheeled himself over to sit before the television a few feet back from Hank, who was still crouched there in stunned silence. His eyes were still riveted to the screen, where the newscaster talked mechanically about what very, very little they seemed to know so far. 

_Hank, it’s going to be all right._

“You only think that because you haven’t been listening,” said Hank out loud, so Charles listened, turning his attention back to the television. The President had been shot, as had the Governor of Texas. The Vice President was fine, as was the First Lady. Nothing seemed terribly wrong yet. Then— 

“Eyewitnesses are reportedly inconsistent as to how many shots were fired,” said a voiceover, “and from what direction. One woman apparently claimed that the bullets changed trajectory in midair—” 

The study door opened and Alex and Sean entered. 

“What’s going—?” 

It was precisely the wrong moment. Charles catapulted forward—his old instinct at this kind of shock would have been to stand, and of course _this_ was what made him forget himself—and out of the chair to fall flat on the carpet. Unshielded, the room filled almost instantly with projections of pain and wrath, sending the younger mutants to their knees. It spread. Upstairs, children started to scream. That was not what he wanted. That was never what he wanted. A little part of his mind turned to guilt and concern, but it was overcome, and he could do nothing. 

“Shields, Professor!” someone yelled. He barely heard. His back hurt, and the carpet was rough as sand on his cheek, and he could think of nothing but the name he was always trying hardest _not_ to think about. 

Thirteen months to the day, and now this. 

“Shit, Hank,” said a different voice, twisted by pain, as another minute passed, “you’re the one obsessed with figuring out mutations, can’t you do something to shut him the fuck up?” 

“I—I do have a new serum for him—” 

“Then _get it_ ,” said Alex through gritted teeth. Hank’s consciousness vanished from the room for a moment. Some part of Charles followed him down to the lab and back. 

_Ouch._

_I’m going to murder him._

_No, you’re not._ You _are not a murderer._

_Then I’m going to cripple him. Even it out._

_Fair enough,_ Hank thought back distractedly as he came back into the study. Sufficiently distracted from his anger, Charles closed his eyes and tried a bit harder to push up his shields. The screams from upstairs began to abate, and around him he could feel his friends calming a little. 

“I don’t know how well this will work,” he said. “When I get angry, that’s usually what cancels its effect on _me_ —” 

“We know,” said Alex, “we’ve been there. But it can’t hurt.” 

“Actually, there’s always a chance it could _amplify_ him, like the old one, so yes, it really could.” 

“Worth a try,” said Sean. “Just do it.” And Hank was by his side, rolling his body over and his sleeve up, pressing a syringe of _something_ into Charles’ arm. The screams stopped entirely. The pain retreated like an implosion, drawing the other teachers to his side, until it was contained—and then it abated entirely with a very satisfying rush in his brain. Charles closed his eyes. 

“Rage and serenity,” he mumbled, and, the first gone, let his mind sink deep into the other as Hank lifted him back into his wheelchair and, at his nod, rolled him over to the window. The teachers crowded in front of the television, joined minutes later by a small group of older students. 

The clouds that had looked to be burning off just an hour ago were darkening again. It seemed appropriate, Charles thought faintly. All of him felt very far away for a moment, and the world around him felt different when he came back to it. After a moment’s confusion he realized why. Every inch of his skin was tingling. Every inch. He could feel his legs again. 

  
2:44 PM  


Chicago

The television in the shop window was old and dusty, but the images still showed up clear enough. The sky had opened up above her fifteen minutes ago, not ten seconds after they officially announced that the President was dead, but Raven hadn’t moved from the spot where she stood, hands pressed into tight fists over her lips, watching the news as it unfolded before her eyes. 

“Isn’t it just awful?” A woman came up to stand beside her. “Everything snatched away so fast, and him still in his prime.” Raven nodded numbly as, this just in, the reporter announced that a suspect was in custody. 

She didn’t sleep that night. Instead she lay awake in her hotel room, the radio keeping her quietly updated. The next morning, deep within the newspaper, a short article next to the very large Oswald story noted that a man suspected to be the terrorist who called himself Magneto had also been arrested in connection with the assassination. Raven shook her head. _Oh, Erik._

“Up to you now, Ruby,” she murmured, refolding the paper and setting it back on the newsstand exactly as it had been. Then she turned, imagined her hair into being brown and her face plain, and walked off in no particular direction to give her mind some time to clear. To decide where to go now. 

She knew very little about Erik’s contact—he was another Jewish mutant, not very powerful himself but with a few important connections, and that was the only explanation had ever been given as to how they knew each other. Raven could only hope he’d be up to dealing with whatever mess they’d gotten themselves into, whatever sloppiness had gotten Erik arrested and the President killed. 

Then there was the Brotherhood. Perhaps Raven ought to contact them. One of them. Someone. Perhaps— 

Right on cue, the air whooshed and snapped beside her as she passed an alley. It was a familiar sound, and the swish of red and black smoke beside her compounded it. Raven stepped back and into the shadows, and there Mystique let Raven slip away. She and Azazel walked side by side in silence until they reached the other outlet. There they just stood, still quiet, blue and red, each with their arms crossed over their chests as they surveyed the street outside. 

“Where were you when you heard?” Mystique asked after a moment. 

“LA,” said Azazel. 

“I assume you saw about Magneto?” 

“I did.” He was always taciturn. Mystique found she rather appreciated it after having grown up with someone like Charles, and this past year she had found even Erik could get long-winded at times. They both so loved to give _speeches_ about things. Usually the same things, if from very different perspectives: problems, solutions, ideals. Today, Mystique was tired of ideals. 

“That’s why you’re here?” she asked. He nodded. Erik had told everyone else where they were headed on the first leg, though only Mystique had known he was leaving Chicago for Dallas straightaway. Of course he’d found her. “Where will you go now?” she asked Azazel. He shrugged. 

“Up to you.” He held out a hand. She took it. 

“Anywhere but Dallas,” said Mystique. Azazel smiled without humor. 

“Germany?” he suggested. Mystique shrugged. 

“Wherever,” she said, and held on as they went.


End file.
